


Blood, Cigarettes and Tears

by TheGameMrsHudsonIsAfoot



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 13:37:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGameMrsHudsonIsAfoot/pseuds/TheGameMrsHudsonIsAfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John H Watson was a doctor of the body. Sherlock Holmes was an expert of the mind. Neither of them were a healer of the heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So honestly, this story has gotten away from me. It was originally supposed to be five chapters, but somehow in my mind it's become the long struggle of how John and Sherlock eventually get together and could be my first ever long multi-chapter fic. I consider every other day putting the whole thing on an indefinite hiatus because it hasn't had much of a response over at ff.net- it's not that I want gushing over it, but some good solid constructive critisism or just a 'hey, I'm enjoying this' would be so great if you think it could work :-) Much love! Charlie x

Oh god, he was such a cliché.

John H Watson was a doctor of the body. Sherlock Holmes was an expert of the mind. Neither of them were a healer of the heart.

When John met a happy couple gushing about love at first sight, he would smile, toast their happiness and check their symptoms off in his mind. (Increase in perspiration, dilated pupils, elevated heart rate.)

Faced with a patient who swore their life had flashed before their eyes, he would nod, console their fears and visualise his textbooks. (Powerful habit-forming tendencies of the mind and a raise of CO2 levels in the blood.)

But at that moment, well, the physical manifestations he had spent half a lifetime studying and analysing and diagnosing did not manifest.

John's life was a story, a linear time frame where every second succeeded the previous one in a relentless march into the future. He had never expected it to break down, stop for a beat, cause-and-effect laid out in front of him like a painting. So tangible it was like he could almost see the future.

Light and shadow washing the scene in a film noir filter. Sherlock, exhilarated, grasping the one shred of evidence that could bring down the gang they had been hunting. (Merely a scrap of paper. It was funny, how human lives could hang in the balance over something so... insignificant. Not ha-ha funny.) The criminal- young, too young, and desperate. The kind of desperation that makes a man dangerous. The cold flash of gun-metal. The astounded look on Sherlock's face (not fear, surprise that his own ability had failed him. He had been convinced the kid wasn't armed.) The bang, reverberating off the buildings that surrounded them. The bullet, aimed true (probably more out of luck than judgement) and flying straight for the heart the detective denied, a messenger of death wrapped in steel and bad intentions.

The good doctor may have been adrift from his body, but his instincts were as loyal as ever. He came from the left and slammed into Sherlock's side, five foot seven inches of compact muscle and determination, slamming them both into the ground.

He felt nothing of the concrete. Sherlock's chest heaving below him, his wide eyes and trembling fingers trying to pass over the crumpled scrap of notepaper, that was when his senses crashed down around him.

The rush of blood drowning him in white noise, the thrumming of his heart, the intense metallic scent like copper...

Wait, what?

He pulled away and saw the one detail he had missed in the moment time stood still.

The blood.

Oh god, the blood.

"Sherlock!”


	2. Chapter 2

John had dealt with grief before.

The soldiers he had treated, young and old, had displayed a vast range of emotion. The doctor had been witness to crippling depression, furious anger and just about everything in between. Sherlock, being Sherlock, shut down completely.

The hours following the shooting had been a blur, though by the time John met Lestrade at Scotland Yard he had boiled it down to the facts.

The kid had fired at Sherlock. He had knocked Sherlock to the ground. ("Bloody hell John, he really doesn't deserve a friend like you some days. You know that, right?") He had pulled out his gun and faced down the kid in a stand-off until the kid had lost his nerve, dropped his weapon and run. ("Greg, stop looking at me like that. I'm not trying to be a hero, he just... he hurt Sherlock.") He had ripped Sherlock's jacket off and treated the wound. ("The word from the hospital is it was only a flesh wound. He owes you his life John, you know how much worse it could have been. There's no reason to be guilty.") The police and the ambulance had arrived together and, well, he knew the rest.

What John didn't talk about was what a mess he had been.

Even in the circumstances, Sherlock had remained calm.

John, the practising physician, had been the one mouthing, "Oh no, oh fuck, oh god, you're going to be okay Sherlock, how does anyone bleed this much?"

John, the ex-soldier, had fought the paramedics trying to take over his duties and get Sherlock into the ambulance.

John, with battlefield experience, had been treated for shock while his hands were still slick with his best friend's blood.

He had seen men live through far more life-threatening injuries.

He couldn't explain why he had come undone.

Sherlock was back on his feet within ten days, left shoulder padded with gauze and the usual arrogant satisfaction in his eyes at being allowed to finally show off to his admirers. He graciously accepted Lestrade's thanks, bashfully avoided Mrs Hudson's fussing and wore his war wound with pride when squaring up to Anderson.

Same old Sherlock.

Or was he? Only John noticed that in the weeks that followed, Sherlock was no longer causing absolute destruction between cases. The frustration was dwindling, but it seemed it was being replaced by something much scarier. Indifference. In vain John waited, but it seemed the detective was retreating into his mind palace a little more each day, and each day 221B Baker Street seemed a little less like home. They didn't talk anymore.

John worried. John got angry, but Sherlock wouldn't shout back at him. John tried everything he could think of. John told himself time healed all wounds. John watched their friendship slipping through his fingers.

And then, seven weeks, four days, eighteen hours and twelve minutes after Sherlock was shot, John met Mary.


	3. Chapter 3

"You really dived in front of a bullet? I thought that only happened in the movies. Calm down, Hollywood!" Her laugh was full-throated and infectious.

"Anyone would have done the same for a friend." His answer was modest, but his body language was all confidence.

"Yes, Sherlock, how is he? He must be fascinating. I bet he keeps you on your toes." On her lips, a slow-burning smile that said 'tell me more'.

God, she was perfect.

John had liked her the moment she had approached him at the bar and announced, "Ex-army-doctor-turned-blogger? I'm-army-brat-teacher-with-wanderlust. Can I buy you a beer?" She may have looked like an angel in nude heels, but miss Mary Morstan had a wicked sense of humour.

Her eyes lit up as they traded tales of far-off lands and difficult people (and she clearly wasn't afraid to laugh at him.)

It was in the midst of chuckling at a story- admiring the way she was so involved in the retelling she had not noticed lock after lock of hair escaping their bonds to frame her face- he glanced in the bar mirror.

Sherlock was staring at him.

He had clearly been watching them for the better part of their conversation (three beers for him, two glasses of wine for her.) The spot above each regal cheekbone was flushed, his eyes too bright and intense, mouth set. John looked back defiantly.

After all that time spent carefully avoiding conversation, he was going to get judgemental now?

No.

"Excuse me for a moment." John muttered, standing up and making for Sherlock, before thinking better of it and stomping off to the bathroom instead.

He wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.

∞

Just a casual night down the pub, Greg had claimed. Nothing special. Oh, there was a friend of Molly's that John might like to meet. Interesting girl. Pretty. Of course Sherlock was welcome if he wanted to come.

The detective had stunned everyone by accepting.

Now he was trapped between an angel, full of life, and his own personal demon haunting him and sipping rum and cokes (he was surprised too.)

Why?

It was the blood.

Because in that heart-rending moment still capable of stealing the very breath from his lungs, John had understood what it would mean to lose Sherlock.

He would lose the one person over the last few years that understood him, accepted his faults, challenged him more than anyone he had ever known and yet chosen him, just a broken man with too many ghosts, to make whole and bring into his world.

There was only one term to describe the depth of their relationship in all its joy and anguish and suspense as they had experienced it together over the past years. Sherlock was his soul mate.  
He was still yet to understand what that meant to him.

Heart in his mouth, John had sought Sherlock's eyes even as they were tangled on the pavement, seeking recognition, acceptance, even a return of the sentiment.

Nothing.

Sherlock who saw all, observed all, understood all, had been relentlessly pushing him away from that very moment, and while it hurt like hell, John had understood.

And yet, he could have sworn as he walked away that in the petty, childish, vindictive detective's eyes there had been an unmistakable tinge of jealousy.

Pursuing Mary was pursuing the life he could have.

Affection. Love. Happiness.

Sherlock was the life he had. The life he had come to know. The life he wasn't sure he could live, but he wasn't sure he could live without.

Mystery. Intrigue. And lonely nights.

He inhaled, hardened his heart and looked at the mirror.

"Alright Watson."

"Who is it going to be?"

"Mary, or Sherlock?"


	4. Chapter 4

"Answer the question!"

"I refuse on the grounds that you're being completely unreasonable."

"What did you say?"

"Oh come on. During your conversation with the woman your pupils dilated, your voice dropped at least an octave and you were mirroring her body language for the last twenty minutes. Do you think I would sabotage you?"

"What am I supposed to think?"

∞

John's mouth was filled with the bitter taste of sour beer and mistrust.

His suspicions had been aroused the moment he returned to find Mary's wineglass (half-empty with a smudge of pale lipstick on the rim) unattended and the woman herself nowhere in sight. Things had been going so well for once. Not about to give her up as a lost cause, he hovered at the bar for as long as he could stand and a minute more, and then went searching in the dim lights and low buzz of conversation that filled the air with a Friday night feel. He was just doubling back to the bathrooms when he ran into Greg.

The Detective Inspector took one look at John's face and confessed.

"John..."

"Just tell me what happened."

"Honestly mate, I don't know what he said. One minute I looked up and you were with Mary, the next you were gone, Sherlock was at the bar and she was walking out."

"She left?"

"Yeah, Molly went with her." Greg answered awkwardly, clearly wishing he had never suggested they come in the first place. John couldn't help but wonder what an earth had possessed him, he wasn't the type to meddle in other people's lives at all until he was pushed to breaking point.

"But it seemed like she... you know... before that..."

"Thanks Greg."

To say the cab ride back to Baker Street was tense was an understatement. The air was simmering with John's barely suppressed rage, his eyes fixed in determination somewhere beyond the rain kissing the windows as the passing streetlights threw the interior of the car into bright light and stark shadow, the pulse of lights playing over them in rapid succession. Sherlock wisely kept his mouth shut.

The ceasefire didn't last long.

∞

"Have I ever given you a reason not to trust me?"

"Yes! I've stood by over the last few years while you've driven away every single woman that's shown an interest in me. You crash my dates, drag me off on cases without a moment's notice and you're downright bloody rude to them. I've had enough."

"Oh."

"What?"

"You like this one, don't you?" There was an unidentifiable tone in Sherlock's baritone voice. Ever the mystery. Tonight John wasn't in the mood to solve him.

"Why?" He asked, his voice was rising in volume. He knew his anger was out of proportion, he really couldn't expect any better from Sherlock after all the time they had shared together, but he couldn't understand what everyone's sudden interest in his love life was. Didn't he deserve happiness? Failing that, didn't he deserve to be left alone? "What's wrong with her? Is she untrustworthy? Damaged? Afraid of communication?"

The detective opened his mouth to answer, already being cut off by John.

"Why don't you just keep your little deductions to yourself this time?"

Marching upstairs to take refuge, he thought he heard Sherlock mutter an almost imperceptible reply (three little words) but it didn't register over the rush of blood to the head, welcoming the white noise to drown out his thoughts.

At 10.27pm, he got the text.


	5. Chapter 5

“Have you sent it yet?” 

“Hang on... um... yeah.” 

“Read it again!” Molly squealed and Mary's nimble fingers stopped flying over the screen for a moment to give her friend an indulgent smile. Despite her rather morbid and misunderstood sense of humour (she did work in a morgue, for goodness sake) Molly had a way of making her feel like a teenager again. She was curled up on the sagging sofa in her pink checked flannel pajamas, Mary in the overstuffed armchair with a crocheted blanket wrapped around her shoulders and her heels abandoned at the front door, the light spilling over them and making their faces glow with warmth. 

In these four walls they had talked about death and new life, love and war, careers and deities and talking goats on youtube. Just for tonight, though, it was all about men. 

“Okay... hello, hero.”

“Hero?” Molly wrinkled her nose delicately, it seemed before she could stop herself, and made Mary wonder whether that last glass of wine might have been a mistake. He was a difficult man to read. Was she trying too hard?

“Well he's already a war hero and now he's in the news with Sherlock every week... I was just teasing him... do you think it's too soon for all that?”

“No, it's sweet!” She clearly didn't look reassured yet because Molly hastened to add with apparent relief, “I always ended up talking to his dates when Sherlock dragged him off on a case and they never made fun of him. They might have called him a hero and meant it, maybe, I'm not sure. I mean, he is, but saying it...” Mary smiled and waited out her flustered stammering patiently, knowing she was trying to make a point. “They were all just a bit... well... if we're being honest... a bit...” 

“Say it, Molly.” 

“Boring!” She blurted and giggled to realise who she sounded like for a moment. 

“I would rather go on a case with them.”

“I know.”

The two women paused to share a smile that spoke of the foundation of their friendship: deep understanding and the knowledge that every bad date could be chased with a bottle of wine and a healthy does of Molly's undefeated hope and Mary's humour. 

“Now finish it!”

Biting back a grin at Molly's sudden impatience, (she always loved a flash of it) Mary read, “Hello hero, sorry to leave the scene of the crime so soon. Let's chase it up with a drink this week?” Rubbing her eyes and remembering too late she hadn't taken her make-up off yet. “You don't think it sounds...”

“Let's have dinner sounded worse. It sounded like a euphamism. Like you wanted to... you know...” 

“Do unmentionable things to him?” 

“A little bit.” 

“What if I do?” She flashed her teeth in a grin and almost saw the word 'aww' form on Molly's lips as her eyes lit up. Only she could see that as a reason to celebrate. It was part of what made her so sweet.

Toby chose to stalk in at that moment, knocking over Molly's empty mug and hissing softly at them with a flick of the very tip of his tail to emphasise how displeased he was with them. They were fraternising with the enemy, the human male, and he was not impressed. He was, however, appeased when his owner scooped him up and planted a kiss directly between his twitching ears. 

She let the companionable silence last a couple of minutes as the cat settled into Molly's lap and stretched out, a regal and ever so slightly annoyed look on his face as he purred louder than the traffic on Oxford Street at peak hour. It was no good. She was never going to say anything.

“So Greg seemed like a nice bloke.”

The poor girl's face went from snow white to blood red in a matter of moments as she flapped one of her hands in what was supposed to be a dismissive gesture, answering, “Oh, Detective Inspector Lestrade is nice. I mean he's a bit older, but he is nice, and he really has a very busy job, and he already has a daughter, which is nice, but he's divorced...”

“Molly.”

“I said nice too many times, didn't I?” Molly answered until she couldn't help but laugh at the utterly crestfallen look on her friend's face. 

“How did you even know?” 

“You've haven't been the same old Molly for a while.” Mary answered. “You've been more confident in yourself and you haven't been letting Sherlock treat you like...” She paused and chose her words carefully. “... like you're less than you are. I only realised tonight why that was. Besides, you let Greg take the lead in introducing John and I and I know it wasn't his idea.” 

They both chuckled softly and she knew Molly wasn't offended. 

“How long have you been together?” 

The younger woman in an incoherent mumble. 

“How long?” 

“Six months.”

“Six months?”

“I didn't think it was going to last!” Molly cried, looking so thoroughly miserable about her secret that Mary couldn't bear to hold it against her, even if she wanted to. “And once I realised it was I was just scared if I started telling people I'd be wrong and everyone would know...” 

“You're forgiven if you tell me everything.” 

“Well, it only started because he was supposed to go to a fancy Scotland Yard benefit. He booked the tickets months before and his wife left again and he didn't want to go alone. But he said he didn't want a rebound, especially not me, and I said I didn't even like him like that, but you know there's a lot of places people judge you for being single!” Molly cried with obvious sympathy. “So before I knew it we were sort of just dating and then the night when Sherlock...” She grimaced and touched her shoulder and Mary couldn't help but notice the ease with which she spoke of him now. She sounded like a good friend, one of the best that man was ever going to have, but nothing more. “He was so lovely. So understanding. A rock. He isn't the man I pictured myself with,” She blushed deeply, “but he's kind and humble and he doesn't even get angry when Toby bites his fingers, he just swears a little bit under his breath. I realised... I realised...”

“That it had been there all along and you just weren't looking for it?” Mary asked quietly, something burning in the depths of her eyes as she leaned forward. “Molly, that's just... he's really... it sounds perfect. I'm so happy for you. And very jealous.” 

Molly's blush was now one of pleasure. “So now you see why you and John would just be so perfect together! You'll have each other and you'll have us. He likes you, I know it, he has to.” 

Mary smiled back with a hint of melancholy and held out her phone. 

“He hasn't answered.”


End file.
